


to have a heart

by fuscience



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 12:21:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1266370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuscience/pseuds/fuscience
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia counts her scars like most people count birthdays and Stiles knows them all - even the ones he left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to have a heart

**Author's Note:**

> I will find a cohesive narrative for my Teen Wolf fics someday...

_inspiration:_

 

 

 

_“the only thing worse than a boy that hates you: a boy that loves you”_

_\- Markus Zusak_

 

Lydia used to count her scars. Sitting in the bathtub, her fingers would trace the little white lines - that's where she fell into a cactus camping in the second grade,  one from tripping during kickball in sixth, the minuscule marks from when she started shaving and couldn't quite avoid the tiny nicks that came from being new to the skill.

The bite from Peter left six tiny triangles at the side of her waist, pinpoints of raised skin that she would run each finger over as the moon would rise at night.

"They're like speed bumps." Stiles says, his fingertip poised on the third lump - the one even with her belly button that is slightly larger than the two below, but smaller than the rest.  His shirt is off and his head is tucked underneath her chin. Lydia shuffles them around so her hand can rest on the mottled skin over his heart, the disfigurement that is proof someone reached inside and pulled out what made him bleed. "They map out the portions of our life that we fought to get over."

There is a nearly invisible scar that runs across her neck, one that, as the years pass and the wrinkles increase with age, will disappear into the folds of Lydia's skin.  Stiles will always be able to find it though. Decades will go by and it will always be the last part of her he touches before they fall asleep together.

They kiss each other's scars, as if it will be enough to erase the physical remnants of their failures _(to protect themselves, to protect everyone)_.

For now, Lydia lies down next to him in the bed, her's long abandoned in their shared hospital room. The blank paper sheets are stiff and starchy when she climbs beneath them, but Stiles is warm and soft, the planes of his body melting into hers.

Her head rests on his chest and there is no heartbeat to hear.

* * *

 

It's midnight and Lydia is screaming. Her lungs burn from the strain, the high pitched tone stealing the air from her body, until her throat goes still from need.

The moon shines brightly overhead and the fear of physical darkness is a poor emotion compared to the death grip the Nogitsune holds on her heart squeezing any bit of hope out. Leaves run across her bare arms, grabbing and twisting, and brittle twigs snap under her feet as Lydia's legs direct her through the underbrush.

Her breath comes out in sharp gasps and she very much regrets skipping any gym class. Ever.

When Lydia falls, rolling down a small cliff, the ground opens up her skin, slicing away at the thin layer of natural protection. It will scar.

Blood falls into Lydia's eye, dripping lazily through her eyebrows and lashes, as she dizzily attempts to raise her head. Possible. No, probable concussion. Laceration to the forehead, running to the supra orbital ridge, bruising on the temporal ridge. There is a ringing in her ears - tinnitus she recites dimly - due to acoustic trauma or possible head or inner ear damage.

Lydia’s eyes are unfocused but a dark shadow falls over the ground, and there's a light pressure on her side.

"Child." His lips brush against her ear in a whisper and she shudders uncontrollably, "Why don't you scream for me some more?"

There's a stinging pain and she groans as his teeth sink into the sensitive lobe of her ear. The monster that is Not-Stiles lets a finger drift down her cheek, onto her neck until goosebumps rise to the surface and there is visible terror in her wide green eyes.

"Scream. Ah. He screams when I touch you." The monster's voice is strange, decades old and young at the same time, rough like sandpaper and slow like a broken watch. Lydia tries to move, but the fall scrambled her brain - an attempt to kick her leg results in a twitch at the elbow. “Not for long though. It'll all be silent in three. Two. One. Shhhhhhh. ”

Her eyesight focuses and Lydia watches Not-Stiles' tongue flick out, and his eyes alight with excited fascination. These eyes are dark and black and soulless and not a crumb of her Stiles remains.

“There he goes. All gobbled up.” The monster pops his lips with satisfaction and, then, long fingers wrap around her throat. She gasps and it's the last sound Lydia makes for a long time.

"Scream. Scream now, child. Let me hear you both scream while you _die_." He laughs with glee and she remembers Kira saying the sprit feeds off of fear and pain. Lydia's got that in spades at the moment, it's seeping through her skin and soaking into the ground.

Her legs kick out, desperately flailing and her arms twitch sporadically, but it's all Lydia can do to simply grab his fingers as they squeeze the life from her lungs. It's the same burning feeling she experiences when she screams until there's no oxygen left to expel. There's a pit in the bottom of her chest and Lydia wonders if the monster inside of her is trying to get out, angry that it can't speak. She cannot scream and so, maybe, Lydia hopes, she cannot beckon her own death.

There's an earth shattering roar, a flash of red eyes, and Scott Mccall physically slams into his best friend's stolen body.

* * *

 

It's 2 a.m. and Stiles is dead. Scott sits stunned on the ground because he's gained so much power in the past year but bringing the dead back to life is not one of them.

He roars and cries and it’s visceral and animalistic - Kira struggles to contain him with her arms.

Derek lays silent in the field, choking on his dying breath and bleeding from a wound that won't heal - the Nogitsune's Arc De Triomphe. The spirit's gone, but he's left his mark. Undoubtedly permanent and shaped by multiple deaths ( _the two are so different Stiles and Derek, Derek and Stiles, but there's an ache because they failed to save them both_ ). Derek died trying to _save_ Stiles, Derek died a hero and Lydia can't even move. 

The miasma dissipates as the last of the evil leaves Stiles' cold body through the gaping hole in his chest. The wound is crusted black on the edges with little rivulets of red blood dribbling down the side.

Lydia still lays on the ground, paralyzed by her wounds, while silent tears leak down her cheeks and still sobs wrack her body.

Allison pulls Lydia to her feet, supporting her friend until Isaac comes up on the other side. They drag her away from the clearing, towards the dirt road just meters away where the Sheriff's car sits with it's engine cold.

Sheriff Stilinksi wraps his son's body in a worn down blanket and lays what's left of Stiles in the back seat of his patrol car. He goes around the car to pop open the trunk and retrieves the flattest pillow Lydia's ever seen, worn down and yellowed at the edges and so obviously overused. The pillow goes under the corpse's head. Blood is already seeping through the sheet, revealing the hollow wound from which the Nogitsune was pulled from, Stiles' heart was sacrificed.

She sits in the front seat, quiet and stunned when the sheriff slips into the driver's seat. His hands attempt to stick the keys in, but they shake so hard that Lydia has to reach over and take the car keys away.

"He needs his pillow. He needed his pillow." His head is bowed as the sobs begin. "Oh god." He moans in pain, repeating his son's name through the rain of tears. Lydia lets the keys drop to the floor and holds the Sheriff's hand, listening to him murmur and cry because his whole world has disappeared.

They are halfway to the hospital, Argent's black SUV following behind in a two-car parade, when Stiles sits up and coughs. The car isn't even in park before Lydia's leaping over the backseat, her hands tearing open the tattered remains of Stiles's shirt, fingers smoothing over the healed tissue over where his heart would be.

"Whoa! Hey there, Lydia!" Stiles thrashes about nervously, "I mean I've always imagined your ripping off my clothes but my dad is like right -"

She kisses him then. Because her throat is damaged and she can’t tell him to shut up. Because when Stiles talks it’s _his_ voice - seventeen and unbelievably smart and stupid at the same time - that she hears. Lydia pulls away and stares at the huge lump of scar tissue that mars the expanse of his chest. Stiles reaches a hand up to cup her face, wiping away the tears that had sprung forth unbidden from her eyes. The moment is gone when Scott rips off the door ( _literally_ ) behind her and the Sheriff opens the door in front. Lydia quickly finds it appropriate to crawl off of Stiles and back to the empty front seat.

Except for shaky legs, and a whole slew of mental trauma, Stiles appears to be fine. The wound is healed, even if the skin remains imperfect.

"Oh, hug me a little harder, I think there's a still a rib you forgot to break."

Scott is lifting and embracing him while his father stands close, eyes alert like he'll never let his son out of his sight again. 

'He might not.' Lydia thinks amused, watching from the front seat. Her head pounds and she blinks her eyes as the ground sways in front.

 

Isaac and Kira stand off to the side and Allison rushes forward to give Stiles a gentle hug. He stands there and accepts their happiness because he was  _dead_  and now he isn't.

The sheriff insists they all still go to the hospital and the everyone reluctantly returns to their respective vehicles. Scott watches Stiles like he might disappear at any moment and Lydia understands that fear more than she really wants to at the moment.

 

She switches to the back seat so Stiles can sit next to his father, but instead watches his skinny form slide next to her through the space where there used to be a door. His shirt hangs off of his shoulders and Lydia considers apologizing, but it's plaid and was technically ruined the moment someone designed it.

They don't say anything to each other, sitting awkwardly next to each other. Lydia watches Stiles swallow nervously, eyes flicking towards the rising  bruises on her throat, then her lips.

She won't be able to speak for a week due to the physical damage of her trachea, but that doesn't mean they can’t communicate. Lydia wraps their pinky fingers together in a promise, fumbling until they’re tentatively holding hands. She leans into him, head coming to lay on the center of his chest and Stiles begins to unravel underneath the pressure of her body, relaxing into her. His eyes close for the first time in a week.

They sit there, tired and happy and _alive_ , as the quiet overcomes them.

 

Lydia can hear her heartbeat. Stiles doesn't have one.

 

 


End file.
